


Nothingness between Relief and Bitterness

by Lenami



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Fluff, Henry being nice for once, I mean probably fluff, In a way, Kinda, M/M, Melancholy, Memories, Oxford, Unrequited Love, idk - Freeform, it depends, not quite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26566666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenami/pseuds/Lenami
Summary: Basil Hallward had unfortunate tendency of falling for the most inappropriate men of all. He loved Henry Wotton for the longest time, longer even than he loved Dorian. It was different kind of love- whereas it took him only one look to fall for Dorian, Henry crept into his heart slowly. One day Basil simply realised that he loved him, looking at Harry sitting on his unmade bed in his tiny, dusty room in Oxford....Basil says his last goodbye to Henry Wotton.
Relationships: Basil Hallward/Henry Wotton, Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward, mentioned
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Nothingness between Relief and Bitterness

**Author's Note:**

> I had this in mind for some time, so finally, here it is! Honestly, I wondered if I should make this longer but I was afraid I would spoil it.   
> I hope someone can enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Basil Hallward had unfortunate tendency of falling for the most inappropriate men of all. He loved Henry Wotton for the longest time, longer even than he loved Dorian. It was different kind of love- whereas it took him only one look to fall for Dorian, Henry crept into his heart slowly. One day Basil simply realised he loved him, looking at him sitting on his unmade bed in his tiny, dusty room in Oxford. He was searching for a missing book in one of the piles of strange papers stolen from the library and Basil felt sudden hunger, want, watching the graceful line of his neck.

And then he knew.

He loved the way he threw back his head while laughing. He loved his slender hands, how his lips curled slowly into smile, the sparks in his eyes. He even loved the ease with which charmingly horrible words slipped from Henry’s tongue.

Surprisingly, it was a quiet affair.

After all of those years, he still wasn’t quite sure how it happened. Henry kissed him after night spend in opera in the darkness of his room, holding Basil’s face between his cool fingers.

Basil could feel his smile in the kiss and his hands started to move on their own, not listening to any reason, itching to touch and grab.

From that night, he remembered Henry’s soundless laugh and how his hair felt beneath the grip of his fingers.

What a memory that was.

He never really knew what exactly Henry felt for him, but there was no use in expecting anything from him.

 _What does he truly love beside the sound of his own laugher and the voices of other people?_ He often thought with bitterness, trailing knobs on Henry’s spine with his ink-stained fingers.

Basil confessed his love only once. It was foolish and embarrassingly simple, but Henry went completely red upon hearing it; Henry, who could say the dirtiest thing imaginable with blank amusement, shied away from affection and truth. Basil often thought with irony that it was only time he managed to catch him off guard.

Of course, there was no other reply to the confession than terrifyingly silent touch. Basil stared at him as they made love, as if he could possess him with eyes only.

“Your hands are the dearest part of you to me.” Henry said once, with endearing attempt at sincerity. It was impossible for Henry Wotton to be sincere, when whatever came out of his mouth drowned in the thousands of his other impressions and masks. In a way, Basil used to love that about him too.

Henry kissed Basil’s paint-stained fingers.

“One could say that artist’s hands are worth more than already existing beauty, because they can multiply it by thousands and immortalize it.”

Basil laughed at those words, knowing well that while they may have been a part of discussion, it wasn’t really Henry’s opinion. Things Henry said never really were his own opinion.

“And what do _you_ say about that, Harry?” He gently touched Henry’s cheekbone, admiring how the fresh green paint stain contrasted with his skin.

“Beauty is the greatest virtue.” His lips stretched into lazy smile.

Light was magnificent that day, Basil remembered, golden and bright, painting soft shadows on Henry’s face. His hands itched to paint it, but he never did- and maybe there was no need to because the memory of it was so vivid and more alive than any painting could ever be.

Henry never appeared in Basil’s works; once, he tried to draw his figure, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so, feeling that if he did, he would have to voice something unsaid, something between them. It bothered Henry- that much Basil could say, but it never changed anything.

Some days Basil thought that maybe if he could see what was behind Henry’s façade, his amused smile, he would discover that in truth, there was no Henry Wotton- that his nature was so fluid he became merely a mirror to other’s self. In those 

Their arrangement wasn’t destined to last long and Basil carried doubt with himself since it all began. It was too soft, too normal and expected for Henry to bear it for that long. Basil suspected he was embarrassed to be caught up in something so boring- he, who was so daring and unconventional, with the massive weight of his words and theories. Henry lived out dangerous idea, there was nothing Basil could do about it, even when it scared him to death. Some nights he stayed up late, watching Henry with unspeakable worry he couldn’t even understand himself, not fully. He dreaded something- but what it was exactly?

 _It’s nothing special,_ he thought, discreetly placing his hand on Henry’s knee in opera. _It’s nothing special,_ he repeated to himself as they sat in his studio, him working and Henry sprawling on the couch with the book.

No wonder they must have drifted away from each other.

Henry kissed him last time on his wedding day, already dressed for the occasion, fingers gripping Basil’s shirt tightly. There was smile in this kiss, as it was in their first one and Basil pushed him away with regret.

“No, Harry. I can’t do it if you have a ring on your finger.” That was all he managed to say.

Something flickered in Henry’s eyes- familiar, but Basil couldn’t completely grasp it. It disappeared in a split second.

“Who says I am going to wear it at all?” His voice was mocking as usual and he turned away to face the mirror, falling silent for a second.

“You are awfully boring man, Basil.” He spoke up once again, tone changed only slightly. Basil couldn’t see his face.

 _I know._ He thought without bitterness, filled with inexplicable worry. On his way out, he took only one look at him, noticing that the collar of Henry’s shirt was slightly crooked.

He watched him marry Victoria with her pale blond hair and dainty hands, lips pressed into thin line.

And the love he had for Henry went away as it came- silently, unexpectedly. Sometimes he still felt cold distance between them as they sat together in his study, but it was so brief and faint it lasted less than blink of an eye and then Henry’s words would drown out everything else but familiar voice in a familiar conversation.

When he met Dorian Gray, none of this mattered anymore. That fateful meeting brought him where he was in that moment; about to leave London altogether, heading for Paris, simply wishing to find oblivion.

Basil often wished he could blame Henry for corrupting Dorian. In a way, it was the truth, but that treacherous thought often left him wondering that if Dorian was truly spoiled, rotten inside, was there anyone responsible for corrupting Henry in the first place?

 _How someone who has never been innocent could be corrupted?_ He thought with self-indulgent bitterness, looking at the façade of Henry’s grand home. He never intended to come here in the first place, but as he walked through grim streets of London, new confidence arisen in him that he ought to see Henry before his travel, even if his friend never cared for goodbyes.

“Dorian is already gone, if you are looking for him.”

Henry never really cared for greetings either.

“I will find him later.” Basil was still in his coat as he sat across Henry on the couch. “I’ve come to see you.”

Henry finally looked up from the collection of poems in his hands. There was unusually serious expression on his face, his brows slightly furrowed.

“You are going away.” He said blankly, not asking, but stating a fact.

“Paris” Basil answered shortly. “I needed to see you before I go.”

“I am sure I told you this already, but you can be so terribly sentimental sometimes.” His usual amused tone came back. “I dislike goodbyes immensely. It’s nothing but an empty gesture.”

 _I know._ Basil thought, tapping the armrest with his fingers restlessly.

“I said I needed to see you, not that I’ve come to say goodbye. I was heading to Dorian’s home, actually, but I felt that I had to see you.”

“It’s still much too sentimental for me.” Henry said, voice a bit mocking but filled with familiar fondness. “It’s been a long time, doesn’t it?”

“You know why is that so.” His voice was gentle, he spoke carefully.

“Bitter, Basil?”

“Oh, sometimes yes, when I feel like it.” He leaned back in his seat, looking Henry right in the eye, unblinking.

“One could say it’s bad for art.”

 _Oh, don’t pretend you still care for my art._ Basil smiled faintly.

“One could say it-”

“Depends, yes, I know.” Henry cut him off, waving his hand dismissively.

“-on what kind of artist are you.” Basil finished calmly, fumbling for cigarettes and the lighter. Henry mechanically handed him his own. The familiarity of the gesture was faded, but Basil knew it could never be forgotten.

“I would hate for your art to be spoiled.”

“I know what you think of my recent works, Harry.” Basil blew the smoke in his direction, but they were too far away from each other for the petty gesture to bother Henry anyway.

“You are still an author of my favourite work.”

“Am I?” Basil sent him crooked smile.

“Dorian’s portrait was magnificent. It’s a shame I never got to see it again.” Henry crossed his legs. “Neither did you, is that right?”

Basil paved over the question.

“You once said that my hands were your favourite part of me.” He said quietly. Something in Henry’s face shifted.

“I did.” He smiled. “It was an honest opinion. I still think so to this day.”

“When you kissed my hands I loved you more than ever before. It was terribly silly of me, wasn’t it?”

Henry shifted in his place, expression unreadable. He wasn’t nervous as he used to be sometimes as a young man, but his pose was far from his usual nonchalance.

“You think me a cynic and not without reason, but isn’t being loved the ultimate pleasure? I can’t look down on you for giving it to me. Being loved is the most basic human need.”

“Even for Lord Henry Wotton? Bold words from you, Harry.” Basil let bitterness drip into his voice once again, not able to stop himself. “But if you think being loved is the ultimate pleasure, you clearly never loved anything truly.”

He smiled but it was more of simple twitch of the lips than a real smile.

“Adoring something with all of your heart. Admiring it.” He continued. “There is nothing coming even close!”

“I love pleasures of life. I love art.” Henry tilted his head, watching Basil carefully. “I loved your art too once.”

“You used to love only a smallest fraction of me.” Basil stated simply, without much regret, nor bitterness. “Artist is not their art.”

“I loved it truly.” He paused, weighting his words. “But Basil! How you loved me! No one else loved me like this.”

His gaze became absent.

“Your love was the most magnificent gift I ever received. Nothing compares to it.” He spoke with quiet confidence. “I do miss it sometimes.”

Unusual honesty appeared in the stretch of his lips. He propped his chin in palm of hand, familiar fondness in the gesture.

“Dorian should be happy to have it.”

Something in Basil’s heart shifted. It was truly a strange feeling, between relief and bitterness.

“You always were greater artist than me, Harry. Your life truly is astonishing work of art. The difference is, that in twenty years someone will be able to touch my works still.” Saying those words out loud brought with it faint memory of old love and Basil felt overwhelmed with the feeling. He stood up as if it was signal to leave. Henry looked up at him from the couch, smile still lingering on his face; something in his eyes spoke of fondness.

“Does the greatness of art depends on its immortality?”

“Oh, shush.” Basil leaned down and kissed him, taking Henry’s face between his hands and mirroring their first kiss. He tilted up his head gently.

They never kissed tenderly or sweetly before.

“I know you dislike goodbyes immensely, Harry.” He said into Henry’s lips. “It’s a goodbye kiss then.”

Henry’s laugh sounded as it always did.

Basil left with no more, no less but a goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> I just realized that when you remember that Basil is going to get murdered in like an hour, it suddenly becomes much more angsty.  
> Well, never mind.  
> Anyway, thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this story, please leave kudos or a comment!


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